Blue Fire
by callensensei
Summary: An AU ending to Physical Fatness. Sometimes even the Professor makes mistakes, and this time he's made the most terrible one of his life.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sherwood Schwartz first lit the fire, not me.

Many thanks to Littlesoprano for being such an able and obliging beta-reader.

Blue Fire

"This bowl?"

The castaways turned. "Oh – OH!" cried Ginger.

For the jungle was lit by an unearthly blue glow, and out of that weird light stepped the luminous figure of the first mate, a glimmering bowl in his hands. "It's empty," said Gilligan, so accustomed to the light that he had not yet noticed it.

The Professor's formula was gone, the chance of rescue ruined. The Skipper spoke for all of them. "Oh, no!"

"Oh, no!" echoed Gilligan, who now finally saw the ghostly pallor of his own body. He dropped the bowl, holding up his glowing hands before his blazing eyes. "Oh, no! _Skipper!_ Skipper, do something!" Wild with panic now, Gilligan took a step forward, but before he could take another he suddenly clutched at his stomach and doubled over. In a moment he collapsed to his knees, retching violently. What spewed on the sand before him shimmered with an eerie light, and he writhed like a giant glow worm on the ground as the Skipper's wrath turned to icy fear.

"Gilligan, little buddy!" He raced over and knelt beside his first mate, grabbing his heaving shoulders. His big hand clamped over Gilligan's glowing forehead. "Professor – he's like an ice-box! What was in that formula? It's not dangerous, is it?"

The Professor's face set like flint, but his pulse was racing. "We need charcoal, Skipper. _Now._"

* * *

The next few minutes were a chaotic blur. The Skipper wanted to carry Gilligan back to camp, but the young sailor moaned so much when lifted that in the end they simply built a campfire next to him, right there at the lagoon. The Skipper and Mary Ann stayed with him while the Howells and Ginger hurried back to camp with the Professor for first aid supplies.

In his hut, the Professor hastily lit several candles on his worktable. He grabbed his medical book down from the shelf as the Howells came hurrying in laden with blankets, a bucket of water and a black-streaked canvas bag. "We've got everything you asked for, Professor, but what on earth are we to do with all this charcoal?" asked Mr. Howell. "I hardly imagine poor Gilligan's in the mood for a barbecue right now."

"That's not the idea, Mr. Howell," said the Professor as he sat down and opened the index of his book. "You'll need to grind the charcoal into a fine powder and then mix it with water until its consistency is semi-liquid. Then spoon it down him. Fast."

Mrs. Howell looked helplessly from her husband to the Professor. "Well, I'm sure we'll try, Professor, but the poor boy can't keep anything down. It's worse than any sea sickness I've ever seen!"

"Indeed! The lad's worse off than if he'd downed my entire stock of brandy at one go," Thurston added. "At this rate there won't be anything of him left!"

"All the more reason why we need to get the phosphorus out of his system. The charcoal should absorb some of it. Now hurry back to the lagoon, both of you. Once I've found the specific antidote in my medical book, I'll get Ginger to help me gather the ingredients."

"Will do, Professor! Come along, Lovey." The wealthy couple hurried out.

By now the Professor had found the page he wanted. "Ah...Here it is: phosphorus poisoning. The antidote should be listed right after the symptoms." He read aloud, "Symptoms of acute or rapid phosphorus poisoning include burning in the throat, pain in the stomach, violent vomiting, coldness, prostration, and either convulsions or stupor. If ingested, there may be extensive damage to the mouth, throat, liver, lungs...dear God..." As he read his voice suddenly slowed as in a nightmare while he dragged a distracted hand through his hair. "...esophagus, nose and stomach. The accepted lethal dose is as little as...oh...oh, dear God." He drew in a sharp breath, staring at the printed page. After a moment, he read on a bit further. "Treatment: there is no known..." Again he paused, frozen. He kept reading the section over and over. "Oh, no. No. There has to be!"

The Professor turned back to search the index again as a cold miasma of fear sank over him. He found the page and read. No better. Back to the index. Again and again he searched, read, denied, and searched again. At last he slammed the book shut and went to the bookshelf, snatching down more volumes. A candle went flying onto the dirt floor as he hastily threw the books on the table . But all he read, no matter where, combined to make an everlasting funeral march of sepulchral black letters. _Bleeding...burning...fatal_..._no known cure_.

When Ginger eventually came in, the Professor didn't even look up. There was a clink as she set a pot of coffee and two cups on the table. "Mr. and Mrs. Howell told me you wanted me to stay and help you, Professor. Poor Gilligan! I'd certainly hate to try to eat charcoal soup! Well, I hope it settles his stomach soon. I've never seen anybody so sick!" She sighed and began to pour the coffee. "Anyway, I thought you might want something to keep you awake, Professor. Looks like we may be in for a long night."

The Professor didn't answer. He stared, unseeing, at his pile of books.

Ginger stopped pouring. "Professor? Is something wrong?"

"What have I done?" he whispered.

"Professor?"

"It's my fault," he murmured slowly. "All my fault."

Now Ginger felt the pall of that cold fear. She put down the pot and bent to look closely at the Professor, noticing the disarray of his table and his hair. One of her own red tresses tumbled out of place, and she pushed it back with nervous fingers. "What's your fault? I – I mean it's a shame Gilligan has a stomach ache, but you know Gilligan. He'll bounce back by morning. And even if you can't duplicate that formula, I just know you'll find some other way to rescue us."

"You don't understand. Gilligan isn't going to bounce back." The Professor stared straight ahead, dazed with horror. "He's going to die."

The words hit the air like a bomb. For a moment Ginger simply stared in stunned silence. Then she burst out. "_What?_ Professor, you can't be serious!"

"I am completely serious."

"But...but what about what you told the Howells to do? That charcoal medicine? Won't it be enough to help Gilligan?"

"With the damage to his esophagus and stomach, Gilligan probably won't be even able to swallow it. It's far too little, far too late." The Professor bit his knuckle, still staring into space.

"But..." Ginger had never seen the Professor act like this. "I don't understand. C-can't you look in your books again? Maybe there's something that you've missed!"

"_What do you think I have been doing, Ginger!_" His voice broke with anguish at last as the full tsunami of emotion hit. "Look for yourself! How could I have been so careless? I knew that phosphorus was poisonous! And do you know _how_ poisonous?"

Ginger shook her head in mute horror.

"Neither did I, because I am an ignorant fool! The amount necessary to kill a man is less than an ounce. Gilligan ate more than ten times that amount!" The Professor shoved the books aside with such force that a few fell to the floor to lie splayed beside the snuffed-out candle. "It's hopeless, Ginger. He's literally being burned alive from the inside!"

"Oh, my God, no. It can't be true. It just can't be!"

"It is." The Professor's voice was inexorable. "It is, because I set a bowl of deadly poison on the table in the midst of Gilligan's food and didn't tell him what it was. I even said, 'Keep eating.' Gilligan trusted me...you all trusted me. And I've killed him."

For a few moments a terrible silence filled the little hut. Then Ginger, eyes glittering and throat choking, got the words out. "How... how long does Gilligan have?"

"Given the amount he consumed...I doubt he'll last until morning."

Ginger jerked as if shot. "And he'll be in pain the whole time?"

The Professor nodded as his eyes glazed over with despair. "Perhaps I could give him something to put him out of his pain now..."

Ginger gasped. "_No!_ Professor, I can't believe you would even suggest such a thing! Have you lost your mind?"

The Professor looked as if he had. "Why should he suffer if there's nothing we can do?"

"You don't know that, Professor! You can't give up! Remember, the show must go on!"

The Professor stared at her, and in spite of himself, almost burst into hysterical laughter. "The show must go on? I beginning to think we've both lost our minds, Ginger! Gilligan is dying and you're spouting theatre clichés?"

Her eyes flashed blue fire. "It's no cliché, Professor! I've lived it!"

"You've what?"

"You heard me! When I'm standing on stage in front of hundreds of people and my costar's next line goes out of his head, I can't just leave him standing there with a blank look on his face, like you've got now. I've got to improvise. So do you!"

The Professor gestured wearily at his fallen books. "What can I improvise for this, Ginger? These books say there is no cure!"

"And the Skipper's navy charts say there is no island here! He still saved us!" Ginger bent and gripped the Professor's shoulder with soft, slender fingers that suddenly seemed to be made of steel. "Sometimes in middle of a play there's a prop I need but it just isn't there, because the prop girl's forgotten to put there. But I don't just stop! I use something else. Otherwise, the play's over!"

The Professor smiled sadly. "The play's the thing..."

"Now who's spouting clichés while Gilligan's dying?" The actress' bright eyes flared. "It's the same here as in the theatre, Professor. Everyone's counting on you. It doesn't matter if you're tired or sick or lost your nerve – you've got a job to do. When you're on stage you function as a group, or you fail as a group. On this island we all look out for each other - and no one gives up on anyone!"

The Professor sighed and struggled to his feet, but couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Ginger, please... I appreciate what you're trying to do. But this isn't the theatre. I haven't forgotten a line. I've cost us a human life." He swallowed, his vision blurring. "The life of one of the kindest, gentlest young men I've ever known..." He began to sink into his chair again, his hand over his eyes.

The Professor blinked as Ginger actually hauled him upright again and slapped him. "Wake up, Professor! There are seven lives at stake here! Every day we're on this island!" Those steel fingers gripped both his arms now. "Stop playing the tragic hero for one minute! Do you think only Gilligan's allowed to make mistakes? You're human too, for heaven's sake! What are you going to do when he dies: run away to the other side of the island? A lot of good that will do anyone!" That soft voice had become a roaring flame. "Do you think only actors have to step outside themselves? What do you think the staff at a hospital does? My sister is a nurse. When lives are at stake, she can't wallow in her own self-pity! She's got to stay focused, no matter what!"

Finally he looked up and met those incandescent eyes. They were blazing like St. Elmo's fire, and the Professor felt the cold ashes of his hope begin to smoulder. "Ginger, I – you're the first person who's ever said that to me."

"Said what?"

"That I'm allowed to make a mistake." He blinked, as though suddenly seeing clearly back through all the years of his life. "I've always been expected to be right, and now that I've been wrong, and so terribly wrong, I don't know what to do. I even suggested...that abomination I suggested a moment ago." He looked back at her again. "Forgive me, Ginger. And help me, please. Tell me what to do!"

Now the fire in her eyes was a refuge of tenderness and compassion. Her grip on his arms relaxed until only the softness of her touch remained. "Professor, if you could make one mistake, why couldn't you make two? Why _couldn't_ you be mistaken about the cure?"

That ember of hope burned a little brighter. "Well, I...the odds are a million to one against, but it gives Gilligan a chance, at least." For a moment he looked back down at his books in dismay. "But if the answer isn't in my books..."

"Then improvise. Look somewhere else." She searched the dark ceiling, as though looking for an answer in the shadows. "What if we found more of this phosphorus, so you could study it here in your lab? Where did you get it?"

"From the rocks down by the beach, not too far from here." His brow lowered in thought. "Yes...perhaps if I could determine its particular properties, there might be a chance..."

She caught him by the hand. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get going while there's still time!"


	2. Chapter 2

The night-time jungle was dark and haunting enough, but as the Professor and Ginger made their way along the roughly marked trail the Professor was haunted by images of Gilligan writhing on the ground in agony. Every time that vision loomed up in his mind's eye he felt the urge to run away and hide himself deep in those jungle shadows, but when he looked up and saw Ginger run her long, slender fingers over the notches in the trees and beckon him on, he squared his shoulders and kept going. Ginger moved down the twisting path with sinuous grace, her red hair and gold-trimmed dress gleaming in the smouldering glare of his torch. "And the Lord went before them like a pillar of fire by night," the Professor murmured softly.

Those marvellous eyes turned on him, depthless in the firelight. "Did you say something?"

"I said I think I see some light." And he knew how true his words were even as he said them.

Ginger pointed behind her. "So do I. It's clearing up ahead, and can I hear the surf. We're almost there!"

They moved still further through the rustling tropical night, until at last the dark canopy of the jungle gave way to the expanse of the sky. A lush wall of tall beach grass before them hid the sea.

"Was this the place?" asked Ginger softly.

"Yes." The Professor came up to stand beside her, his fingers curling around her slender hand, seeking her strength. "I just pray we find some miracle to save Gilligan!"

Ginger squeezed back. "We will." She glanced down towards their interlaced hands, and smiled in spite of herself. "But I think you'd better wait a minute."

"Why?"

"Your shoelace is untied. Don't want you tripping over the cure, do we?"

The Professor looked from her bemused eyes to his errant footgear. He rolled his eyes and sighed, glad of the chance to ease the tension. "Good heavens. What's the matter with me tonight? Hold the torch for me, would you?"

Ginger smiled as at a private joke and took the flaming torch. Holding it aloft, she parted the tall, thick grass and looked ahead while the Professor knelt on the ground.

"Oh, this beach is beautiful at night. So romantic." She sighed. "I wish we were here for a different reason."

"So do I." Preoccupied with his shoelace and his fears, the Professor didn't look up. "Do you see any phosphorescent rocks? They should be glowing."

"There are plenty of them, Professor! Enough to light up every sign on Broadway. Why, even the sea's full of phosphorus! It looks like it's on fire!"

This time the Professor did look up. His heart was pounding. "What? Ginger...what did you say?"

She looked back, puzzled at his tone. "I only said that the sea was full of phosphorus."

"But...phosphorus doesn't occur underwater!" He stood up and strode forward to where Ginger held the long beach grass aside.

There lay the miracle.

For there was the ocean stretched out before them, edged by the dark silhouette of the cliffs along the distant shoreline. Slender palms saluted the glorious night sky: a milk-white moon in the indigo heavens, framed by diamond stars. A few lonely clouds floated like islands in that starry sea, but the wide expanse of water below was anything but still: it danced and sparkled with a thousand neon blue flashes, like a mysterious fire blazing just under the surface, all the way out to the horizon. The dazzling waves that broke on the rocks bathed them in their radiance, until they seemed to reflect the stars.

The Professor stood as if Damascus' vision had struck him blind. He hardly dared believe it. "That light!"

"It's so beautiful - it almost looks like it's alive," said Ginger.

"It is! I _have _been blind!" the Professor cried. "It's Plato's Fire of the Sea!" With a wild laugh the scientist charged down the sand-dunes, straight into the glittering waters. He splashed in up to his waist, flinging up the water in great fountains and letting it cascade down his arms in a bacchanal of joy.

Alarmed, Ginger kicked off her shoes, threw the torch down on the sand and splashed in after him. The water foamed around her, coating her in a sparkling mantle. She finally caught him and grabbed him by the arms. "Professor, what is it? What's the matter?"

His face was alight. "You were right, Ginger! I can make mistakes! Ha, ha!"

"What are you talking about!"

"That substance on those rocks wasn't phosphorus at all! It was this!" The Professor scooped up the shimmering water in his cupped hands. "_Dino Flagellates_!

"Dino who? What is that? Sounds like an Italian movie star!"

"No, Ginger! They're a microscopic bioluminescent life form. They generate light with their own bodies!"

Ginger held out her hands as the Professor poured the magical mixture into them. "You mean like a firefly does?"

"Exactly! Or the deep-sea angler fish, or the Bermuda fire-worm!" Even in a transport of joy, the Professor slid into lecture mode. "Most bioluminescent species live in the depths of the ocean, where there is no light. They have to make their own. Like this!" He spread his arms towards the glowing horizon. "But every so often they rise to the surface. Mariners as far back as ancient Greece described the phenomena as looking like the sea was on fire! They must have washed up on those rocks I found, and I mistook them for phosphorus. I never thought of them coming from the water!"

"But what about Gilligan? He ate them, didn't he? Are they dangerous?"

Roy Hinkley threw back his head and laughed. "Not _Dino Flagellates_! Not in the least! Gilligan is fine!"

With a sudden whoop the Professor caught Ginger up in his arms and they danced and swung in the moonlight, their laughter echoing amid the shimmering waves. At last they stopped for breath, splashing and soaked to the skin, as Ginger pulled her wet bangs from her eyes. "But Professor, what made poor Gilligan so sick, then? He threw up nearly everything he'd eaten today!"

The Professor smote his forehead and laughed again. "Of course he did! Ginger, Ginger, you're looking at the greatest fool from here to both poles! Come on! Let's get down to the lagoon. I think I know how to ease Gilligan's suffering and my conscience once and for all!"

***************

But they never reached the lagoon. Returning to camp for dry clothes, Ginger and the Professor found the Skipper and the Howells already there, seated at the communal table. Mary Ann was conspicuously absent, though delicious smells were coming from the direction of her baking oven. And wrapped in a blanket, curled cozily on Mr. Howell's chaise lounge while sipping warm coconut milk from a straw, was Gilligan. Only the faintest glow emanated from his fingernails now, and he smiled as the sodden two appeared in the light of the tiki torches. "Hi, Professor. Hi, Ginger. Where'd you get to?"

They both rushed to him, Ginger flinging her arms around his skinny shoulders until she nearly choked him. "Thank heavens you're all right, Gilligan!" she cried as she kissed him. "The last time I saw you you'd just about passed out!"

"I think I'm gonna pass out now!" Gilligan gulped in deep breaths as she released him. "Thanks, Ginger. Hey, how'd you get all wet? This is a funny time for a swim – and it looks like you forgot your bathing suits."

Mrs. Howell peered curiously through her lorgnette. "I suppose it's one way of avoiding the tropical sun, but really!"

"It's a one way to catch a tropical cold, I daresay," said her husband. "Ginger, my dear, you'd better have my jacket before you catch your death!"

"Hang on, Mr. Howell. Here, Ginger." Gilligan ably unwound himself from his brown blanket and passed it to her. "I don't need this thing anymore. I'm not sick."

"Thanks, Gilligan." The tall redhead smiled and stepped back to make room for the Professor.

Hesitantly the Professor knelt at Gilligan's side and pressed his hand against the young man's dark bangs. "Gilligan, thank heavens! I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you. How do you feel?"

"Like the heavyweight champ's used my stomach for a punching bag. I don't want anything to eat for the next week!"

The Skipper ambled over to rest a heavy hand on his first mate's shoulder. "Well, you brought it on yourself, little buddy. Don't expect any sympathy from me! It wasn't any fun starving for the past few days while watching you make a pig out of yourself!"

"Aw, come on, Skipper. You make it sound like I was greedy. I did it for you, remember? So we could both go back in the Navy!"

"Huh. The only place you'd have ended up is the infirmary. I could have told you a little guy like you couldn't take on that much chow!"

Gilligan gave an arch smile. "I guess you're right, Skipper. When it comes to taking on chow you're in a league all your own."

"Wiseguy." The Skipper's cap came down on his head, but so lightly it barely disturbed Gilligan's hair. "At least when I eat something, it's food. Not the Professor's formula!"

"Oh, yeah." Gilligan sheepishly wiggled his glowing fingertips and turned to the Professor. "Sorry about that, Professor. Guess I goofed again, didn't I? But I guess you wouldn't understand that...you never make a mistake."

The Professor gasped as if struck. He took a deep, deep breath and squeezed Gilligan's arm briefly as Ginger moved silently forward to stand at the scientist's side. The Professor cleared his throat, even as he felt Ginger's hand brush his shoulder. "This was _my_ mistake, Gilligan. My carelessness. I should have told you what was in that bowl when I set it beside you. I could have done you terrible harm. Can you ever forgive me?"

Gilligan cocked his head and stared in innocent puzzlement. "Sure, Professor. I guess everybody makes mistakes."

The Professor gave a great sigh of relief. Looking down, he caught sight of Gilligan's hands and examined his glowing nails. "Well, don't worry about the rescue, Gilligan. This substance wouldn't have saved us. It's already wearing off, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Good thing, too. Otherwise I might have kept the Skipper up all night." Gilligan raised an eyebrow. "Oh well, Skipper. At least you could have read the Navy Manual by me, and we wouldn't have had to waste a candle."

"Nobody holds a candle to you, little buddy. That's for sure."

The general laughter that followed was interrupted by Mary Ann's entrance with two coconut cream pies on a tray. "Here they are, everybody! Fresh from the oven!"

The Skipper hit the table like a torpedo, scooping up knife and fork before Mary Ann could even set the tray down. "Mmm! That smells wonderful, Mary Ann!"

Mary Ann smiled. "And this one's just for you, Skipper. The other is for everybody else!"

"Little sweetheart, you're the best!"

Carefully the farm girl passed the pieplate over on a folded towel. "Watch out, Skipper. It's hot. Gilligan, are you having any?"

Gilligan shuddered and managed a weak grin. "Heh – maybe next time, Mary Ann! I'm on a diet!"

The Professor stood up. "I've got some herbs in my hut that should settle your stomach, Gilligan. I'll start them brewing, and maybe you will find you can manage some of that pie."

"That'd be great, Professor. Thanks."

"And perhaps you'd both better change out of those wet things," added Mrs. Howell, still peering through her lorgnette.

Ginger and the Professor looked sheepishly at each other and nodded. She went to her hut and he to his as Mary Ann began dishing out the pie.

A few minutes later the Professor was straining peppermint tea leaves over a coconut cup when he heard a knock at his door. He heard the wooden door swing open, and a soft voice murmured, "Well, at the risk of spouting theatre clichés, 'All's well that ends well.'"

He turned to a vision in the dancing candlelight: a vision of fire-red hair and fire-blue eyes. She was wearing the white dress she had made from Gilligan's duffle bag. "Thanks for the dance, by the way," said Ginger with a fond smile.

The Professor put his strainer down with a sigh of deep appreciation. "Ginger, how can I ever thank you for what you did tonight? You were magnificent."

She shrugged gracefully, still smiling. "I had a magnificent leading man."

He shook his head. "No. I didn't lead. You did. I don't know what I would have done without you tonight. I – I really haven't any words to thank you."

"Why don't you show me then, Professor?" She flowed across the room towards him, almost as luminous as the flickering beings that had lit the moonlit bay. About a foot from him she stopped, eyes gleaming.

Roy Hinkley held out his hand in his best boy-scout manner. "Thank you, Ginger."

Ginger's sigh could have blown out a volcano. She stared down at his hand in disbelief for a moment before she finally shook it, shaking her head in the bargain. "You're welcome, Professor." Slowly her smile came back, though she sighed again. "Is that for Gilligan?" she asked, indicating the coconut cup.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes. I hope he'll enjoy it more than the charcoal soup!"

She picked it up. "I'll take it to him, then. In the meantime—" and he caught one last flash of those blue eyes as she looked his still-damp physique pointedly up and down, "you really had better get out of those wet things!"

As she rippled out the door, Roy Hinkley looked down at his shaking hand. He closed his medical book, his fingers lingering to caress the soft leather. "Just one more cliché," he murmured, alone in the candlelight. "'Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright.' Thank you, Ginger. Thank you."


End file.
